The Rainbow Trail eBook

Soon afterward he was riding Nack-yal on the rough
and winding trail up through the broken country of
cliffs and canyon to the great league -long sage and
cedar slope of the mountain. It was weeks since
he had ridden the mustang. Nack-yal was fat
and lazy. He loved his master, but he did not
like the climb, and so fell far behind the lean and
wiry pony that carried Nas Ta Bega. The sage
levels were as purple as the haze of the distance,
and there was a bitter-sweet tang on the strong, cool
wind. The sun was gold behind the dark line of
fringe on the mountain-top. A flock of sheep
swept down one of the sage levels, looking like a
narrow stream of white and black and brown. It
was always amazing for Shefford to see how swiftly
these Navajo sheep grazed along. Wild mustangs
plunged out of the cedar clumps and stood upon the
ridges, whistling defiance or curiosity, and their
manes and tails waved in the wind.

Shefford mounted slowly to the cedar bench in the
midst of which were hidden the few hogans. And
he halted at the edge to dismount and take a look
at that downward-sweeping world of color, of wide space,
at the wild desert upland which from there unrolled
its magnificent panorama.

Then he passed on into the cedars. How strange
to hear the lambs bleating again! Lambing-time
had come early, but still spring was there in the
new green of grass, in the bright upland flower.
He led his mustang out of the cedars into the cleared
circle. It was full of colts and lambs, and
there were the shepherd-dogs and a few old rams and
ewes. But the circle was a quiet place this day.
There were no Indians in sight. Shefford loosened
the saddle-girths on Nack-yal and, leaving him to
graze, went toward the hogan of Hosteen Doetin.
A blanket was hung across the door. Shefford
heard a low chanting. He waited beside the door
till the covering was pulled in, then he entered.

Hosteen Doetin met him, clasped his hand. The
old Navajo could not speak; his fine face was working
in grief; tears streamed from his dim old eyes and
rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. His sorrow was
no different from a white man’s sorrow.
Beyond him Shefford saw Nas Ta Bega standing with
folded arms, somehow terrible in his somber impassiveness.
At his feet crouched the old woman, Hosteen Doetin’s
wife, and beside her, prone and quiet, half covered
with a blanket, lay Glen Naspa.

She was dead. To Shefford she seemed older than
when he had last seen her. And she was beautiful.
Calm, cold, dark, with only bitter lips to give the
lie to peace! There was a story in those lips.

At her side, half hidden under the fold of blanket,
lay a tiny bundle. Its human shape startled Shefford.
Then he did not need to be told the tragedy.
When he looked again at Glen Naspa’s face he
seemed to understand all that had made her older,
to feel the pain that had lined and set her lips.